Never before had he trusted another person with so much. He’d had no choice. Orült szerzetes knew the swamp better than anyone alive, and only he could get this motley, dangerous group out of Budapest, away from the Russians and their hardline cronies. Or so went the legend of the “mad monk.” Like so much during these difficult weeks, it went unconfirmed.

He didn’t like to trust legends.

Making little noise, the rest of the group started back into the water, knee-deep now, ever so close to freedom. His instructions were precise. He forced himself to wait, and then he would follow. It was his job to get the others to safety; his job to accept the position of greatest risk.

A bright light flashed, blinding him.

Guns cocked.

Somewhere behind the painful light a voice commanded, in Russian, “Halt!”

“You were dreaming,” Ashley said. She handed Stevens a fresh ice pack. “Feeling better?”

He tried to smile. “Some.”

“You talked in your sleep—in another language. You kept saying, over and over, ‘orült’ and then something that sounds like a sneeze. What does it mean?”

“It means crazy monk or friar.” His voice seemed stronger, and his color had improved. But his look was distant. “The mad monk.”

“Oh.”

“Thank you for the ice.”

“No problem.”

“Your brother—”

“He’s outside trying to find Barky. You haven’t changed your mind? It was our uncle who hit you?”

“I was hit from behind, but I know it was he.”

“You’re enemies, aren’t you?”

He said nothing.

When David came in, they agreed to take shifts watching MacGregor Stevens. If he seemed to be worsening in any way, they’d call an ambulance and to hell with his protests. In the morning, if all went well and he improved, they would grill him. It was all they could hope to do: David had found no sign of Barky outside.

Ashley took the first shift. She stoked the fire in the potbelly wood stove and turned off most of the lights. Sitting in Barky’s chair, next to his pipes and ashtray, she covered her legs with an afghan and yawned.

MacGregor Stevens slept. This time he didn’t talk in his sleep.

In two hours, Ashley dragged herself upstairs. David was snoring, and she hated to wake him, but she’d been on her feet since dawn. It had been one hell of a long day. She needed rest.

She shook him. “David, come on. David—”

Downstairs the screen door banged.

“Oh, no!” She smacked her brother hard. “David, get up! Stevens is leaving.”

“Huh? What?”

She ran out of the room and took the stairs two at a time and bounded through the house. The kitchen door stood open. A cold gust of air blew in. She raced outside.

The headlights of her Jaguar blinded her. The engine purred to a start. She leaped toward the light. “Wait!”

The car skidded backward, turned sharply to the right and kicked up gravel as it careered to the end of the horseshoe. Without stopping, it screeched out onto the road.